


Lovers Between the Lines

by definitelynotmayshepard



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Ben and Martin Feel Sad About s4, Ben is Basically Really Interested in Using His Mouth, Ben's POV, Bossy Martin, Brief Mention of Martin's Life Situation, Comfort/Angst, Face-Fucking, Freebatch - Freeform, If Not Johnlock Then Freebatch, Inspired by the Sadness that Was Inspired by s4, It's only logical, Kissing, M/M, Martin is Basically a Sex Boss, Porn with Feelings, Sophie? Who's Sophie? I Don't Know Her, pining ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 08:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10302719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/definitelynotmayshepard/pseuds/definitelynotmayshepard
Summary: After the December 2016 screening of The Six Thatchers, Ben and Martin get together and don't talk about what went wrong with series 4.***ETA DISCLAIMER***I forgot to add this because I foolishly assumed it was a given, but this is a work entirely of fiction about two fictional characters who bear no resemblance whatsoever to their namesakes and would, I am certain, never actually do, think, or say any of these things. The only thing I've taken from reality is a superficial resemblance to extremely superficial things like the fact that actual Ben and Martin star in a show together that happens to have the same name as the show in this fic.s4 was still kind of shit though.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FullmetalFeminist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalFeminist/gifts).



19 December, photo shoot before the screening of The Six Thatchers at BBC One, business as usual: try to look handsome, look friendly, look like you're having fun. Ben smiled wistfully at the camera, blinded by the flash. The event was closed to the public, thank Christ, but still, too many people in the room, too many people trying to talk to the two of them.

Martin stood beside him, his mouth open in a churlish grin, fingerguns blazing. Only Martin could get away with that wink, that put-on smarm, because the reality was, he was entirely made of charisma. Of course he'd worn a jean jacket. And a cosy vest. Goddamn it. He looked amazing. 

Beside him, Ben was all awkward angles in his carefully tailored suit. He smiled and pointed at the camera, lamely, even as he teetered on the edge of desire. Too much to do, look nice, look excited, talk about the show. All he could think about was the man standing beside him, and whether they might get the chance to be alone together, if only for a few moments, when all was said and done.

A few moments was all he would need, really, if he was honest with himself. He hoped Martin felt the same.

Martin's hand slipped across the small of Ben's back. He leaned in toward Ben, and Ben caught the scent of Martin's soap, the subtle aftershave he favoured. "Focus, you. You're drifting. If you aren't good, then why should I give you what you want, hm?"

The words were growled, low and sonorous. They went straight to Ben's lower belly, the weight of his need threatening to make his knees buckle. He fought the impulse, stronger than he would have liked, to lie down on the faux wood laminated floor and refuse to get up, until Martin agreed to let him do what he wanted with his mouth. What he always wanted to do with his mouth.

Martin elbowed him. "Look like you're having fun, all right? We both know this is going down the toilet by January fifteenth. Might as well enjoy ourselves now."

Ben slipped a hand down onto Martin's shoulder, allowing it to rest there for a moment, while the photographer murmured approval.

"That's the spirit," Martin told him, his whole body shaking as he laughed. "You can do this."

They both could, Ben decided, as he smiled and posed. He sighed, heavily, not wanting to let go. He hadn't gotten the chance to talk to Martin—really talk—since the night after filming on The Lying Detective wrapped.

And they had talked, then, in a whole new way, that had started the spark of a fresh hope in Ben's heart. Just talked. It hadn't been one of the many nights where they'd come together in a clash of lips and frenzy, when the small intimacies of the set—a shared word, a silent glance—had built between them until they were both dying to get into a trailer, or back to Martin's place in Soho, and tear aside their clothes and their restraint.

No, that night had been different. Martin had simply come to Ben's trailer and laid himself down across Ben's chest, the two of them tangled together on the sofa, flattened, Martin's limbs loose with exhaustion as he allowed Ben to card his fingers through his soft hair.

"Are you all right?" Ben had asked, when long silence had played out between them.

"Mm. It's just—you know it isn't going to be enough."

"What isn't?"

He didn't really need to ask. Since they'd read the scripts, they'd both known that there was a great deal amiss with the new series. Still, Martin rarely spoke of how he felt, and he'd given so much that day, in the name of his performance. Ben wanted him to have the chance to talk about it. Nobody else would really understand.

"The tears. The tenderness. It's a beautiful scene, but why weren't we allowed to just fucking say it directly? There's too much ambiguity. They're in love. They always have been, I think, since they were first written. But this—it's cowardly. And we can only do so much. This story, Ben. I wanted—" He'd trailed off, unable to finish, as if the script, in failing itself, had made him unable to speak his truth, as well.

"I know. It's okay," Ben had said, kissing the top of Martin's head, echoing the words he'd spoken as Sherlock. During filming, he'd meant them as much for Martin, as he had for John. He knew that much of Martin's performance in that scene had drawn on his frustration with the series, with the years of work they'd both done, to create what they'd thought was a love story, only to see it wasted.

The tenderness had only lasted a single night, though. Martin rarely allowed himself to be anything but in control, when he was with Ben. The two of them came together when time and circumstance allowed, and it was always very, very good, but Ben knew that Martin had other lovers. It was as if, freed from his marriage, he'd decided that he would never allow himself to be pinned down again.

Besides, Ben mused, as Martin pushed him forward so he could pose by himself for a few moments, he rather liked it when Martin did the pinning.

The rest of the day was a blur: interview, screening, more photos. When it was time to go, Martin slipped his fingers into Ben's hand as he hugged him goodbye, and pressed a folded piece of paper into his palm. Ben closed his hand around it and slipped it into his jacket pocket, allowing himself a sigh and a swell of raw, undifferentiated emotion. It was all he could do to focus on what Sue and Mark were saying, as they parted ways, to chat with Steven a bit, to accept a few handshakes from people he barely knew. He smiled, sure, but he was distracted, his heart thumping.

Martin slipped out early.

The moment he was in his car, Ben hurried to unfold the note.

_My place. Now._

Ben told his driver to head to Soho, his voice trembling, and tucked the note back into his pocket. As the car eased through traffic, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. _Now._ The economy of words boded well.  

The thrill of knowing they would be together in a matter of moments, that Martin still wanted him, was as amazing as ever. Ben shifted in his seat, imagining the taste of Martin on his lips, Martin asking for his tongue, rough praise pouring down on Ben's head as he fell to his knees.

He was never certain, if things would happen between them. Martin's life was complicated, his tastes sometimes arbitrary, or so it seemed. Ben had tried, on more than one occasion, to make it clear that he would always be available, time and place permitting. He wanted to be closer, but Martin had never answered those conversations, never stepped into the space Ben so carefully tried to open up for him.

_This story, Ben. I wanted—_

Martin choking on his own words. Ben knew how that felt. He wanted things, too.

No time to be glum, he assured himself. Being with Martin was, he wasn't ashamed to admit to himself, his favourite thing in the world. It would be easy, for the next few moments, or, if Martin were willing, a bit longer, to put his subtler yearnings aside. Compromise was normal in relationships, wasn't it? He would do well to remember that.

The car pulled up outside Martin's flat. Ben straightened his tie as he let himself in through the security door.

The man himself was nowhere to be seen as Ben stepped into the flat. There was a distant sound, of the shower running. Ben removed his jacket, and draped it over the back of the armchair. He sat on the sofa and flipped open a coffee table book—a history of Jazz—and was trying to do something other than stare blankly at the pictures, when he heard the shower stop, and a door open and close down the hallway.

Martin's footsteps approached from behind him, careful and slow, taking his time. A thrill ran up Ben's spine as Martin's fingers pushed into his hair—shorter than it had been during shooting for Sherlock, although not by much. He leaned back into the touch, eyes falling shut, practically purring. Martin's fingers were strong, his touch sure, steady. It always made Ben feel like he was home, like he was utterly secure and safe, anchored.

It was an illusion, or, only a temporary effect. After, Martin could be cold. But when he wanted Ben, it was like nothing else.

"Glad you came," Martin said, his voice husky, assured.

Ben reached up and put his hands on Martin's, tugging on them, drawing him around the side of the sofa, until he was standing in front of him.

He wore only a short dressing gown, thick green cotton. His hair—still grown out, slicked back from his forehead—was wet from the shower. Ben reached out a hand and wrapped it around Martin's hip, thumb running over the bone, through the cotton. With his other hand, he slipped his fingertips across Martin's knee, and up under the hem of the dressing gown.

"Mm," Martin hummed. "No prelude, then."

Ben traced the line of Martin's body with his eyes, leaner, more spare, than he had ever been before. Martin met Ben's gaze, smiling down at him, amused, maybe even fond, his eyes bright, his brows quirked.

Ben normally wanted to talk—he still did, even now, want to talk, to share the intimacies of words and ideas, to make Martin laugh, or laugh at something Martin said, to talk about deeper things, about the series, about the future, but his body was thrumming with heat and need. It could wait. It would all have to wait.  

He pushed his hand further up under Martin's dressing gown, feeling the bottom hem of boxer briefs, and ran his fingertips under the edge. He leaned forward, holding Martin in place with the hand on his hip, and pressed his face into Martin's crotch, feeling the firm outline of his cock, the full measure of his need, against his mouth, his cheek.

He reminded himself, for the hundredth time, that this was intimacy too, this wanting, this giving and taking, and maybe it was more essential, more fundamental, than anything they could say or agree to. He looked up at Martin again. Martin reached down and rubbed a thumb over Ben's cheek, across his lower lip.

"I want to take your mouth. I'm going to, unless you say no. All right?"

A strangled laugh popped from Ben's throat, and turned into a chuckle as he reached up to untie Martin's dressing gown, which parted under his hands. He opened his lips and mouthed Martin's cock through his pants, sliding his lips along Martin's length, feeling his cock grow harder with each pass.

It wasn't enough. He pushed Martin back and slid to his knees in front of him, pawing at the waistband of the pants to pull them down.

"Not yet," Martin commanded. "Easy. Just—take your time." His voice was strained, as he sought Ben's hands and held them still, pressing them into his hips as Ben complied, working Martin's cock with his mouth, through the dampening fabric.

Martin always been good at denying himself, through all the years of his marriage, all the times he chose to pretend he was something other than himself. They shared that in common—Ben still pretended, felt he had to. And yet, it was beautiful, the way that Martin could turn that skill to his own pleasure, the way he managed to make it all work for him now, drawing things out, attenuating each moment of pleasure, in case it never came again.

"That's it. Just—ah—there!" Martin gasped, his voice tight, as Ben focused on the tender head, nipping at the fabric with his firm lips, wondering if he could pull the pants down with his mouth, if Martin wouldn't allow him to use his hands.

"You dirty boy." Martin's rough praise illuminated Ben from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, his cock throbbing and straining against his suit trousers in rhythmic imitation of Martin's syllables. "Can't wait, can you?"

Ben returned to Martin's head, dragging his lips over it from side to side, mouthing and nuzzling until it leaked through the fabric. He sat back on his heels, hands still pressed tight against Martin's hips, held there, while Martin groaned. Ben licked his lips, the faintest taste of Martin's fluids there. He wanted more, needed the feeling of Martin filling his mouth, his throat, but he knew the only way to get there was when Martin said.

Martin looked down at him, a filthy half grin on his lips as he ran his tongue over his teeth. "You want it."

Ben blinked and pressed his lips together, and nodded. Martin released Ben's hands, and reached down and touched his face again. Tender. He lifted Ben's chin, and bent forward, kissing Ben's forehead, the corner of his eye, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, before bringing their lips together, a warm, ripe kiss, full of all the sweetness and sadness the two of them felt. This momentary tenderness was about the work, Ben was sure, and about the striving and about everything they'd tried to do. Ben felt it in Martin's touch, in the thin sense of melancholy between them.

Maybe they would never talk about it again, but they could have this, this warmth, never fully manifest in the rest of their lives, but here, now. Maybe this was all they needed, just this: Martin's tongue slipping between Ben's lips, Martin's hands cupping his face, being suspended in this perilous moment before the long downhill rush of sex and orgasm, when all the air would leave the room and they would be both complete, and on the cusp of separation again.

It was fine. It was all fine.

Martin stood straight, letting him go. "You want," he said.

"Yes."

Martin's fingers lingered over the waistband of his pants. Ben chewed his lower lip, watching closely as Martin pushed the edge of the waistband down, revealing the faint skirl of hair that ran in a line down from his belly button, and more, as he eased the pants over his hips, revealing the top of his hard cock, where it was held sideways by the tension of his pants.

It sprang free all at once, the head pushing out over the lip of the waistband, so hard it stood straight out toward Ben's waiting mouth. Ben panted, anticipating the warmth of it, the silky weight balancing on his tongue.

"Come here." Martin growled, inching closer, pushing his fingers into Ben's hair, taking hold of him. "Come here."

The first contact of Martin's cock with Ben's lips was another tease, a tentative brush. A sound of throaty need groaned out of Martin, but the hand in Ben's hair held him back, prevented him from pushing forward and taking Martin into his mouth. His own stiff prick ached, and he settled on palming himself through his trousers.

"None of that," Martin said, pulling back. "I'll take care of you when you're finished with me, all right?"

Ben held up his hands, looking up at Martin, contrite, surrendered. He placed his fingers on Martin's hips, keeping eye contact with him, as he caressed him, thumbs rubbing circles across his upper thighs, Martin's cock a scandalous, gorgeous sight.

"All right. All right." Martin eased forward again, brushing Ben's lips with the tip of his cock, then pushing forward, in past his lips, easing slowly across the bed of Ben's tongue.

Ben sucked lightly on Martin's head, nudging the underside with his tongue, starting slowly, paying attention, in just the way Martin liked.

"Mm. Amazing. You're—good. Very good." Martin eased his hips forward, sliding slowly until he reached the back of Ben's throat.

Ben sucked and swallowed around Martin, relaxing deeply, urging his muscles to soften and take Martin in as fully as he wanted to press, swallowing around him, finally, squeezing as Martin held the position, withdrew, and pressed forward again, in tiny increments, soft, slow thrusts of his hips as he held Ben's head in place.

They held to the same pattern for several long, sweet moments, the only sounds in the room the wet suck and shift of Martin, filling Ben's mouth, and Ben, drawing him in and inviting him by gentle presses on hip and bottom.

"Ah. More, yeah?" Martin urged, as Ben, feeling Martin's cock grow marble hard, his thrusts deepen, drew him as deep into his throat as he could take him, again and again.

Martin, careful as ever, and wise to the old rhythms they'd found together, slipped his hand up into the longer hair on top of Ben's head, and held there, drawing Ben's mouth over his shaft as he thrust faster, moaning and cursing his way to the end.

"Fuck, yes, fuck." Martin's words dissolved in harsh, ragged breaths as he curled his body over Ben, his cock sunk deep into the back of Ben's throat, gouts of come spilling out, filling Ben's mouth, and dribbling down his chin, onto his shirt.

It was amazing, how filthy Ben could feel, even while still fully dressed. As he swallowed around Martin, feeling him soften in his mouth, he marvelled at the beauty of it, how they always seemed to fit together, Martin's brash command, his own need to be fed, to be told what to do. 

Martin took a step back, drawing his pants back up to cover himself, dressing gown hanging halfway off his right shoulder, his partially dried hair beginning to droop boyishly over his forehead. "Lie down on the sofa," he said, his voice gentle now, the rhythms of it like a caress, soft.

He was so rarely soft.

Ben got to his feet awkwardly, half bent over his own erection, and sat. Before he could settle himself, Martin was with him, hands caressing his face, easing him down against soft cushions, cradling the back of his neck, whispering sweet words as he kneeled on the sofa beside Ben's hip.

"God, God, Ben, how did it come to this? God." Martin draped himself over Ben, kissing his mouth, each press, each swipe of his tongue deepening, and words, more words than Martin ever spoke, spilling out onto Ben's lips.

"They should have had this. They never got the chance. God, Ben. They should have. They should have been allowed—"

Ben's cock strained against his trousers, and he reached down and palmed himself again, until Martin's hand knocked his out of the way, and took its place. Ben moaned and arched to Martin's touch.

Two or three strokes of Martin's palm against his naked cock would be enough, he thought, if he could just get Martin to undress him, just a little.

"It's a travesty—this—all wasted—" Martin murmured, nuzzling Ben's neck, mouthing his jaw, and finally unbuttoning his trousers, and tugging at the zip.

The work. Martin cared about it passionately, more than anyone Ben had ever met. And he was right, of course he was.

"Look at you," Martin hissed, finally pushing down Ben's trousers, and slipping a hand inside.

Ben gasped as Martin touched him, his back arching as Martin's palm wrapped around him. The caress was soft, a gentle brush of fingers, a slow, deliberate tease that sent shivers of need running all over Ben's body.

"Hush," Martin said, sliding lower on the sofa. "Sh. Just let me—" He tugged at Ben's trousers and pants. "Lift your hips."

Ben complied eagerly, his cock finally free, as Martin lowered himself down over it.

"Just look at you."

Ben's cock was flushed an alarming dark shade, full to bursting, the tip leaking freely. "Oh my God," he gasped, shutting his eyes against the sight of Martin licking his lips.

Martin rarely went down on him. He rarely got the chance—Ben was almost always all too ready to come immediately following whatever he did to Martin, and he usually couldn't wait—he would end up touching himself, or he would thrust into Martin's hand, making himself come in a matter of moments. But now, Martin's words, the longing, the things he was saying—beautiful things. They were art, and Ben would wait, even as he gasped raggedly at the edge of total destruction.

"He would do this," Martin said, licking his lips again, his face sharp and vulnerable, like John Watson's, for a brief moment, a flutter of the character showing in the way he cocked his eyebrow before he bent down and tongued the head of Ben's cock, sending rough pleasure singing through Ben's blood.

Ben played to the moment, making low, nasal groans, like Sherlock would.

"John Watson would definitely suck cock," Martin murmured. He plunged down over Ben, his hot, wet mouth tightening, squeezing around him, his hand working Ben in earnest. He pulled off, to growl, "He would love it. It's all he's thought about doing since the day they met."

"Ahh—" Ben bucked and arched off the sofa as Martin went to work, sucking in earnest, his hand flying along Ben's length. He closed his eyes and lost himself to the feeling of being surrounded by Martin's lips, worked by Martin's tongue, as his whole body buzzed and he knew he couldn't last much longer, just a few more strokes, another twist of Martin's small hands, a murmur of his tongue across Ben's head, and he was gone, come spilling out over Martin's lips, running back down over his spurting cock, warm and wet and full.

As Ben lay gasping, blinking himself back into the reality of Martin's flat, the plain black leather sofa, and Martin, sitting up now, pulling his dressing gown back around him, he wondered if it would ever be enough, this time they had together, not knowing if it would happen again, waiting until opportunity drew them close, and tore them apart again.

It wasn't likely there would be another series, or so the papers said. Maybe there would be, if they were lucky. Another chance to play lovers between the lines, to be beloved to each other, at least as their characters. Ben fought the urge to reach out to Martin, to take his hand, to try to hold him. He settled on smiling up at him as he stood, bent over Ben, and kissed his forehead once more.

"That was lovely," Martin said, a tenderness coming into his eyes, softening the lines of his mouth. "Why don't you stay to dinner?"

Ben cleared his throat. If he sounded strained when he spoke, he hoped Martin would understand, it was just the sex, it was what it was. "I'd like that."

 


End file.
